Ashalara was once the jewel of the system—a beacon of art, technology, and freedom. Now, it shimmered with a different kind of brilliance.

Controlled brilliance.

As the crew stepped through the outer gates, Sai felt the change immediately. Not brainwashing, not like the Blackhawks—but order. Chilling, efficient, unnatural order.

Drones moved on predetermined routes. Surveillance pylons rotated in rhythm. No one shouted in the streets. Citizens smiled, nodded, and kept walking. The illusion of peace, maintained by a quiet hand.

“Creepy,” Ramm muttered. “I feel like the vending machines are listening to us.”

“They are,” Pepe whispered. “And the lamp post. And that bird. Possibly not a real bird.”

They kept their heads down, moving cautiously through tighter streets and low-light corridors, sticking close to each other. Sai moved quietly, hugging shadows when needed but staying visible enough to avoid suspicion. Jarek watched every corner. Brinn kept a hand close to his flame core, just in case.

They weren’t being followed—yet.

As they passed a crowded junction, a scuffle broke out in a nearby alley. Two Weavers, dressed in sleek armor, were dragging a struggling teenager into the shadows.

Pepe hovered lower, voice hushed but still annoyingly bright.

“That’s either a mugging or an awkward family reunion. Fifty credits on trauma.”

The teenager twisted in their grip, face bloodied but defiant.

The others turned to look as well.

Sai didn’t wait. He was gone before the words finished, moving with lethal intent and appearing behind one of the enforcers.

A flash of movement. A dull thud.

Jarek stepped in next, blaster low but ready. Brinn surged forward, fire flickering.

"Hey," Brinn barked. "Hands off the kid."

The Weavers turned, but not in alarm. More like curiosity.

“Unauthorized interference,” one said flatly.

Ramm shouted, “Surprise distraction!” and tossed a food wrapper in the air. It achieved nothing. But it was distracting.

Sai incapacitated one. Jarek stunned the other.

The teen slumped to the ground, gasping and wiping blood from his lip. He looked up at the group warily, keeping his distance.

“I’m Tov,” he muttered, still catching his breath.

They pulled him into a narrow alley. Sai scouted for tails. None.

“Why were they after you?” Jarek asked.

Tov hesitated. “Does it matter? They always are.”

Brinn looked him over. “You’re not just some street kid.”

“No,” Tov said, brushing blood from his lip. “But I didn’t think anyone would care.”

Before anyone could respond, a faint metallic clank echoed behind them.

Three figures stepped out from the far corners of the alley, weapons lowered but alert. Their armor was pieced together from scavenged plates and rebel insignias.

The lead one, a woman with a scar down her cheek, looked at the group. “You’re the ones who took down the Weavers?”

“Depends who’s asking,” Jarek said.

“You’re traveling with someone we’ve been watching for a while,” she nodded toward Tov. “That makes you worth a conversation. Come with us,” she said. “You’re heading for the Hollow Flame now—whether you know it or not.”

Ramm leaned to Brinn and whispered, “That sounded like either a threat or a date.”

Pepe beeped, “Either way, we’re following them.”

As they passed into the tunnel, the hum of the city faded. The silence that replaced it wasn’t peaceful—it was the kind that waited.

With no better option, the crew followed the rebels into the depths—toward something more hidden than any of them had expected.